


Nights

by swooning



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Bill and Laura are two middle-aged people in an impossible situation, they have to play the hands they've been dealt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as sort of a rebound from "Trying on Soft for Size." How, I wondered, do they get from that scene in "Six of One" to the place they are by "Sine Qua Non?" The easy answer is, of course, that the PTB decided they would get there. But taken as an exercise in character development, there must be a story behind the change of heart. What would have had to happen in the parts of the story we never saw, in order for the relationship to progress in that direction? 
> 
> Little moments, I decided. Little personal moments that, taken together, bridged the divide. So here's one moment.

Nights were the worst.   
  
Without the lights, there was only the air between them, filled with her scent and the soft sound of her breathing. Not so soft, too, sometimes. But Bill would never listen to a lady snore and then tell. He might not know much, but he knew that much.  
  
He didn't sleep well, knowing she was there. At first he told himself it was the simple fact of the change, of having a person close by all night long for the first time in years. It would feel this way with any person there. Or, he rationalized, it was the normal reaction of any man to having any woman invade his space. It didn't have to be specific to this woman.   
  
Her precious stash of cosmetics crowding the limited counter space in the tiny head. A small number of things, of course, all that were left. Just the hairbrush, a toothbrush and a small plastic container filled with the mint-laced baking soda they'd all taken to using in the absence of toothpaste. A bottle of lotion, a small zippered bag that he knew contained some makeup and a nail clipper. She kept it all tidy, put each item back in its place after using it. He thought she would probably do that, anyway, that she probably did that even when she was alone. It wasn't just out of deference to the living arrangements.   
  
Her clothes in his wardrobe locker smelled of her, and after a few days his own clothes had picked up the smell. So he fancied. More likely the other way around, he knew, but at odd times of day he would turn his head and catch something, just a trace, as if she had just been standing behind him when he knew she was nowhere close by. So she was not just sharing his room, now, not just sharing those nights but creeping into the rest of his day as well.   
  
But at night he lay awake and admitted to himself that it wasn't just the loss of privacy, or the typical clash of genders, but the fact that she had been creeping into his life since the first time they met. Infuriating, the way she ebbed with his flow, never quite there and never quite gone. Infuriating, but completely compelling. And he'd thought that with this new living arrangement, and this new understanding that seemed to be springing up between them, things would be different.   
  
Things had become different, but not that way. With Starbuck gone again, with Laura sicker than either of them had believed she would become so quickly, their lowered defenses had allowed them to hurt one another too easily and unexpectedly. Their warring opinions about Starbuck and the search for Earth had rushed into through the window of opportunity created by their uncertainty, by the way they both behaved badly to loved ones in reaction to stress. She had moved in at his behest, not as planned but because of expedience. She wouldn't have stayed if it hadn't been necessary. She had glared at his offer with a fury that froze him, but she'd recognized there was no other efficient way for her to continue working and receiving her treatments at the same time. So now he had her there, and at first it felt as though she had never been further away.   
  
And yet most of the time, strangely, it was enough. He was too much in his own thoughts at the best of times anyway, he knew. Having somebody else there all the time, thinking in his space, reading him all the time, felt more crowded than the physical situation alone could explain. But having someone else there all the time, living in his space, thinking with him all the time... was too good to give up. He could have found her a space, she could have stayed somewhere else on Galactica, but he couldn't have borne it. There were already too many unbearable things; he could not have withstood the weight of one more.   
  
And now she could hardly bear him. She hadn't had to reproach him for lashing out at her. No tearful demands for remorse, no shrill accusations of heartlessness. She was who she was, and at her angriest she lashed out not by attacking, but by withholding herself. By becoming cordial. Professional. Almost sweet, she was so polite, except her every word grated on the senses like biting on tin foil, and damned if she didn't know that full well. It tore at his heart and she wanted it to, knowing that she was being the better player about the whole thing despite having been dealt the worst hand possible.   
  
He wasn't an apologist for himself. There was an element of self-loathing in his personality with which he was all too familiar, a perverse and self-centered preference to beat himself up for his own failings rather than ever seeking or accepting punishment or absolution from anyone else for them. He had made a career out of being his own harshest critic; sometimes, he wondered if the reason he had allowed himself to believe marriage with a woman like Carolanne would work out was simply that she seemed like an even more vehement judge of his mistakes than he was. But in the end, she could never do as good a job of cutting him down as he could do himself. And therefore, she was ultimately unnecessary. And she knew it, she knew he didn't need her. That had been the end.   
  
Knowing himself, however, didn't make it any easier for him to change his ways. Instead he had permitted himself the ultimate luxury in self-reproach, by removing himself many astronomical units away from any possible resolution of the things he had then considered his two greatest failures: his marriage, and his role as a father.   
  
And there he was again, thinking about himself and what a frak-up he was, when such a simple thing might resolve the situation at hand. A simple apology. If it was simple, he wondered, why was it impossible? Two words. And he could no more say them than he could EVA without a spacesuit. Impossible.   
  
A gentle rustle alerted him to the President's restlessness, from across the charged space between the couch and his rack. Bill lifted his head as if he could see her, and just caught a short, forceful sigh. Her 'irritated' sigh, he recognized with a smile that daylight rarely saw.   
  
"You still awake?" he asked, keeping it quiet in case she wasn't.   
  
She sighed again and he heard a soft but definite thud, as though she had punched the pillow with some force in the blow. "Yes, I'm awake. Gods damn it."  
  
"You okay? Can I get you any-"  
  
"No! Just... no. But thank you. Ugh. I just wish I could sleep, you know?" A flash blinded him momentarily, the light of his reading lamp flooding the space without warning and leaving a stain of brilliant color on his unsuspecting retinas. He caught sight of her shape, backlit, before he saw the rest of her. One arm stretched up to angle the light down, and the other braced against the bed as she sat up. Even half-asleep, even in illness, she had that easy, uncontrived elegance. It threw him, always, maybe because she could jump so easily from a manner that suited such grace to one that would better suit a fighter jock on shore leave. When he chuckled at this thought, she threw him a frown.   
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing."   
  
"Why were you awake?"  
  
"Couple of things on my mind. You know."  
  
"I guess I do, at that. So..."  
  
"So..."  
  
"I think I may just shave my head."   
  
It took him a beat to catch up with her, another to force down the wave of panic her words unaccountably brought on. "Well, it's your head."   
  
"Yes, it is."   
  
"Is...is there much..."   
  
"Left? No, not much."   
  
Her tone was high, light, unconcerned, and a lie. He squinted against the light again, seeing the scarf wrapped around her head. It had slipped awry in her sleep and the knot rode somewhat jauntily to the side, giving her an oddly piratical air. She rubbed her fingers lightly over the smooth, white silk, looking self-conscious and therefore not like herself.   
  
"Not much left," she repeated. He wondered if she even realized she was touching the scarf, playing with its edge where the fabric was folded over her forehead. "My head felt cold at first, but now I think I'm getting used to it. The eyelashes are the worst part."  
  
"Really? Your eyelashes, too?"  
  
"Mmm. It's terrible. They're there for a reason, but you just don't think about it until you don't have them anymore. Now it's... what are you doing?"  
  
He had risen and tugged his blanket up with him, wrapping it around his shoulders like a poncho against the chill and approaching the rack with a determined and curious expression. When he sat on the edge of the rack and peered at her face, she felt a surge of sudden anger at the presumption.   
  
"Yeah, they're gone, too. It pretty much all falls out, Bill, in case you were wondering about anything else."  
  
He blinked a few times, processing that information, unable to suppress a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He finally succumbed to the temptation to let his eyes slide, for the briefest moment, to Laura's lap. He anticipated the firm push against his shoulder, her groan of feigned annoyance, and the tiniest hint of a smirk forming in response to his smile.   
  
"Sorry."  
  
"No you're not."  
  
"Well, maybe not about that."   
  
"Sneaky. But I'll take it. I'm sorry, too. For all this." She gestured around the room, at nothing in particular, ending the movement with an automatic reach upward to run her fingers through the hair that was no longer there. Instead she fingered the edge of the scarf again, almost as though she was puzzled by its presence.   
  
Bill reached up and twined his fingers through hers, pulling her hand back down to rest on the covers between them. He rubbed her palm in slow circles with his thumb as he spoke.   
  
"You need some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be tough." He didn't need to say what they both knew, that she had another treatment tomorrow and would begin once more the cycle of nausea, vomiting, and dehydrated weakness that followed each dose of the toxin that was her only hope of survival.   
  
"I know." She made no move to lie down, just pulled at the blanket over her legs, tracing the folds with clutching fingers.   
  
"You want me to read something?"  
  
She shook her head, sighing.   
  
"I guess I'll just go back and let you rest, then." He was surprised to feel her grip tighten, holding him when he started to stand. When he looked at her questioningly she didn't meet his gaze, just bit her lip and looked down at their joined hands.   
  
"Could you just stay a minute? Just -"  
  
"Sure." He said immediately, settling back down. Settling in. "Sure."


End file.
